


Numbers

by paperstorm



Series: Deleted Scenes [85]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tag for <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1464089/?ref_=tt_ep_ep3">'Free To Be You and Me', 5x3</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> Contains dialogue from the episode Free To Be You and Me, it belongs to Eric Kripke and Jeremy Carver.

  
_He whom thou blesset is blessed, and he who thou cursest is cursed._   
_Numbers 22:6_   


  
Dean hates the Impala now. He sits in her, drives in her, and just hates it because there is nothing but empty space where Sam is supposed to be. For years, both before and after Sam ran off to play normal in California, Dean’s place was behind the wheel and Sam’s place was beside him. Dean doesn’t count their years apart as part of his life anymore, because they sucked too much and he’s worked too hard to pretend they never happened. So now, even though he knows parting ways was for the best, he’s got over ten years of muscle memories screaming at him, crying out like a lost limb for the part of Dean that’s gone missing. His passenger is gone, in more ways than just the literal one. More ways than Dean cares to think about.  
  
Sam can’t hunt in his condition, and Dean has to keep going, so it was the right move. Doesn’t stop Dean from being miserable about it. Doesn’t stop him from avoiding everything that reminds him of Sam and hunting more recklessly than he has since before Hell. And it definitely doesn’t stop him from staring at Sam’s number in his phone a hundred times a day, wishing he could think of a valid reason to call him other than just wanting to hear the sound of his voice.  
  
After three days, he gets his wish, but it’s bittersweet with a heavy emphasis on bitter. Dean staggers back to his motel room after slicing the head off a Fang; he’s exhausted and moody and covered in blood and he just wants to collapse into the lumpy bed and get a solid few hours before he ships out of here, when his phone buzzes in his pocket and Sam’s name is written across the screen. For just a split-second, Dean’s not going to answer it. And then he does, because it’s Sam and he could be in trouble, and no matter how far apart they are right now, physically and otherwise, Dean would never get over it if he ignored Sam’s call for help.  
  
“Sam?” Dean answers, instantly worried something’s happened now that the thought has crossed his mind. But there’s only the whuff of static on the other line, someone breathing out shakily. “Sammy? Is that you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam’s soft voice finally answers.  
  
“Are you hurt? Where are you?” Dean demands. Even with just that one word, Sam sounds all kinds of distressed and Dean’s heart races.  
  
“No, I … m’ fine, Dean. M’not hurt. Or anythin’.”  
  
His words are slurred just a little, consonants relaxed and slight southern twang slipping in like when he’s really tired or … drunk. This is what Sam sounds like drunk. Sam is calling him _drunk_. Dean forgets about being concerned and goes right back to angry.  
  
“Don’t fuckin’ do that! You scared me!” he snaps.  
  
Sam doesn’t answer. He just sniffs pathetically, and Dean rolls his eyes and collapses down into the worn armchair in the corner of the room.  
  
“Why’re you calling, Sam?” Dean asks flatly. It isn’t fair, for Sam to be doing this to him. He wants so badly the turn the clock back to when they were happy together but he _can’t_ , and Sam’s not making this any easier. As if Dean didn’t have enough to deal with already without this on top of everything.  
  
“I just … I need you t’understand how sorry I am,” Sam breathes.  
  
Dean closes his eyes as they start to burn. “You think I don’t? You an’ me may’ve gone down some pretty different paths in the last little while, but I still know you would never have done this on purpose.”  
  
“Never,” Sam echoes. “I swear.”  
  
“I _know_.”  
  
“So then why?”  
  
“Why what?”  
  
“Why m’I in Okalahoma in a shitty motel bed by myself? Why’re you wherever the hell you are?”  
  
“Don’t do that,” Dean grinds out harshly. “Don’t you _put_ this on me, you were the one who wanted to leave!”  
  
“Yeah. And you’re the one who didn’t stop me.”  
  
“Did you _want_ me to stop you?”  
  
“Well since when do you give a fuck about what I want?” Sam cries. “An’ I get it, you’re mad at me. And you should be, ‘cause I fucked up, Dean. I fucked _everything_ up. I always fuck everythin’ up. Always.”  
  
“Sam, it’s not about being mad at you, okay?” Dean says heavily. He rubs his free hand over his face, debating whether he should just hang up. Sam’s obviously not hurt or in danger, and he’s obviously shit-faced. There probably isn’t much of a point in having this conversation, especially not right now. “I mean, I am. Mad. But I … it’s not like I’m trying to punish you or something. I mean, you said it yourself, you can’t hunt. At least not until you get your head back on straight. And I _need_ to hunt. Not because I want to, because ...”  
  
“Because I started the Apocalypse,” Sam finishes in a tiny, broken voice.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean agrees reluctantly.  
  
Sam exhales unsteadily, and Dean can hear the tears on his face when he mumbles, “M’so sorry, Dean.”  
  
“I know,” Dean says for what feels like the fiftieth time.  
  
“But you don’t forgive me.”  
  
It isn’t a question, and it has tears burning behind Dean’s eyes again. He clenches his jaw and swallows, everything he wants to say getting caught in the back of his throat.  
  
“It’s okay. You don’t have to,” Sam continues, his voice sad and words flowing into each other. “I don’t forgive me either.”  
  
“Sammy,” Dean whispers, but it’s the only word he can get out before his throat closes again.  
  
“No, it’s … I know. It’s fine. I get it, okay? And I know it was my idea to split up and I still think it was the right idea. I … I don’t wanna screw up again, Dean. I don’t wanna put you in danger.”  
  
His voice shakes, and Dean can so vividly picture him; curled up in a motel bed, in his ratty old sweats, his messy hair in his eyes and tears on his face and whiskey coursing through his bloodstream. It’s all he can do not to break down just like Sam is. He’s always been so helpless to resist doing whatever he can to fix it when he little brother is upset.  
  
“I shouldn’t have called,” Sam continues sadly. “I know that. I know it makes things worse. I just … I’m just drunk, and stupid, and I miss you.”  
  
“Get some sleep,” is what comes out of Dean’s mouth, even though it’s not what 95% of his brain is begging him to say. “Things’ll look better in the morning.”  
  
“People always say that. It’s not true, though, is it?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Dean answers tightly. “Guess you’ll have to tell me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles dejectedly, and then there’s more shuffling and a soft thud like Sam just dropped his phone on the ground instead of hanging it up.  
  
Dean says his brother’s name a few times, but Sam doesn’t answer so he sighs and presses the button to end the call. Then he hurls the phone across the room.  
  
____  
  
  
There’s blood on Dean’s jacket, so he takes it to the sink to scrub it out. It wouldn’t be the first item of clothing he owns that has battle-scars on it, but it’s nice to have at least some clothes that don’t make people think he’s just finished chopping some innocent schmo up into bits. He wipes at the stain with a washcloth, and he gets some of it out and goes to rinse the cloth out. The corner of his eye catches something, and he looks up to find Cas standing _right_ behind him.  
  
Dean jumps and grabs the sink, equal parts startled and pissed off about _being_ startled. “ _God_. Don’t do that!”  
  
Cas just looks confused, like he doesn’t get that it’s freaky as hell to just _appear_ behind a person. “Hello Dean.”  
  
Dean glowers at him and turns around, and Cas doesn’t move. He’s three inches away from Dean’s face, peering at him with those too-intense blue eyes and it makes Dean’s skin crawl. “Cas, we’ve talked about this. Personal space.”  
  
“My apologies.”  
  
He moves away and Dean rolls his eyes and picks his jacket up off the counter. “How’d you find me? I thought I was flying below the angel radar.”  
  
“You are. Bobby told me where you were.”  
  
Dean sighs. He’s gonna have to remember to ream Bobby out for that. He doesn’t have a problem with this particular angel per-se, but he’s still in knots about Sam and isn’t really interested in company right now.  
  
“Where’s Sam?” Cas asks, and that pisses Dean off too. Cas doesn’t really care; none of the angels have _ever_ cared about Sam. They all make that perfectly clear every chance they get.  
  
“Me and Sam are taking separate vacations for a while.” Dean pulls his jacket on and folds the collar down, and then he turns to Cas. “So. Find God yet? More importantly, can I have my damn necklace back please?”  
  
Dean is going to cut Cas’s freaking nuts off if he loses or breaks it. Other than the Impala, it’s the only possession Dean owns that he really cares about. The fact that both those things are so deeply connected to Sam doesn’t escape him. He’d just prefer not to think about that right now.  
  
“No, I haven’t found him. That’s why I’m here, I need your help,” Cas intones dryly.  
  
“With what?” Dean asks, barely caring enough to continue listening at this point. “The God hunt? Not interested.”  
  
“It’s not God. It’s someone else.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Archangel. The one who killed me.”  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”  
  
“His name is Raphael.”  
  
“You were wasted by a Teenage Mutant Ninja-Angel?”  
  
As always, the joke flies right through Cas. “I’ve heard whispers that he’s walking the Earth. This is a rare opportunity.”  
  
“For what, revenge?”  
  
“Information.”  
  
Dean huffs and walks a few steps away from Cas. “So, what. You think you can find this dude and he’s just gonna spill God’s address?”  
  
“Yes. Because we are going to trap him and interrogate him.”  
  
Dean turns back to him, eyebrows rising higher this time. He sorta thinks it’s about time Cas started having some stones. “You’re serious about this?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So what, I’m Thelma, you’re Louise, and we’re just gonna hold hands and sail off this cliff together?”  
  
Cas frowns at him, not getting the reference.  
  
Dean walks around him and drops the knife he was holding into his bag. “Give me one good reason why I should do this.”  
  
“Because you’re Michael’s vessel and no angel will dare harm you.”  
  
“Oh, so I’m your bullet shield!” Dean concludes, annoyed as always that the angels never seem to see him as anything other than a pawn in their cosmic chess game. The whole _Michael’s vessel_ thing is something else Dean hasn’t even begun to wrap his head around.  
  
“I need your help because you are the only one who’ll help me,” Cas says slowly. “Please.”  
  
Dean studies him, trying to find emotion in Castiel’s steel-blue eyes, and he doesn’t find much but the angel seems sincere. Dean doesn’t have a hunt lined up at the moment, so fine, he’ll help. Doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it. And it definitely doesn’t mean it’ll hurt less to see someone other than Sam in the passenger’s seat of his car.  
  
____  
  
Sam doesn’t call again. Somehow, Dean knows he won’t. He stares at Sam’s number in his phone a hundred more times, but if he dialed it he wouldn’t have the first clue what to say. He does miss Sam. It isn’t true, what he says to Cas in the car after they ditch Raphael in a ring of Holy fire. He tells Cas he likes being alone, that he’s good, that he had more fun with Cas in the last few days than he’s had with Sam in years, but none of it is true. It _feels_ true, in the moment, but deep down Dean knows it isn’t. And _Cas_ knows it isn’t – Dean’s gotta figure that’s why the angel disappears while Dean’s in the middle of a sentence. No time or patience to sit around listening to Dean spouting off about how happy he is when they both know it’s a lie.  
  
Dean misses Sam with every cell in his body. He misses Sam’s laugh, his annoying habits, his bitch-face, everything. He misses the way Sam made him feel, back before the world was ending. He misses Sam’s hands on him, Sam’s lips against his, Sam’s arms around him. He misses the way Sam used to look up at him like he was the most important person in the world. He misses looking into Sam’s eyes and seeing love reflected there, and he even misses rolling his eyes at himself for thinking things like that. He’s still hurt and confused and so fucking betrayed it feels like an actual knife-wound, but he has twenty-five years of good memories with Sam battling with only a few short months of bad ones, and Dean’s brain knows their separation was for the best but his heart doesn’t. Stupid and girly and reckless as it may be, Dean’s heart just wants Sam back.  
  
He won’t call him, though. Dean saw what Sam became, he saw all of it. He has a job to do; a whole planet to save. And he can’t do that with Sam. Not anymore. Not since Sam had a choice and didn’t choose Dean. No matter what his heart wants.


End file.
